To quote a friend, doin' better than I deserve

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Archive | December 2013

I’m learning things from an intelligent and candid young woman. She is amazingly beautiful to look at, untarnished, unconscious of how truly stunning she is. Yet what I continue to observe is how radiant she is—how exquisite she is on the inside. And she’s so young!! Not yet battered by what the world will send her way, she is already so wise and so caring.

What I have learned from her most recently is the vision she has. The discernment. She looks at a large, lumbering, sometimes silly young man and sees so much promise, so much capability—and truly her knight in shining armor. He is a brilliantly independent thinker, ready with his opinions, outspoken, yet wise beyond his years—so she’s not mistaken. Just very young to have spotted this ambitious young soul and know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s the man for her. I’ve loved seeing how her growing love for him has completely grounded him. What an impact—and I don’t believe she knows that her love for him is the catalyst.

Let me share with you a few comments she has made about him:

They met a couple of years ago, during high school. And only a few months into their relationship, she listed this poem beside his photo: “Say farewell to the dark night, I see the coming of the sun. I feel like a little child whose life has just begun, you came and breathed new life into this lonely heart of mine” (Back at One, by Brian McKnight)

Then a few months later: “When a girl is in love you can see it in her smile. When a guy is in love you can see it in his eyes.” If you could see the photo she posted with this comment, you would totally understand.

She has been through all sorts of escapades with him, some adventurous, some calamitous and yet she comes up with this statement that’s way beyond her years: “Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”

Her continual gratitude for him and what he means to her is a gift in itself: “You make my heart smile.”

What a sweet, sweet spirit to see him as a gift for her: “I must have done something right, to have you in my life.”

Beside a photo of the two of them relaxed, laid back and laughing themselves silly is the wise-beyond-her-years admission: “Thank God I’ve finally found someone I can be my completely stupid self with and we still enjoy every second of it.”

And when he was trying to help her in an awkward private moment: “Every girl deserves a guy who looks at her everyday like it’s the first time he saw her.”

This young woman will never have to fear her man being miles away and tempted by anyone: “It’s not every day that you find someone who can put up with your bullshit. Hold on to them with all you have.”

And ultimately a worldly wise woman who knows how to tempt, how to entice, how to endear and “keep” (for lack of a better word) a man’s interest: “A legal kiss is never as good as a stolen one.”

I wanted to share this portrait of a shrewd and truly perceptive woman’s approach to her relationship and her future in hopes that it will inspire you to do the same. This world has sometimes fostered a lack of integrity; it encourages lassitude and an almost anarchist attitude toward life. Yet I’ve learned that she is living proof that somewhere out there is another person who is meant to complete you; who will improve you just by being aware that you exist.

I love this idea. I spend lots of late evening and early morning “waking” hours wondering why I’m just not sleepy. I may be truly wide awake; or sleep deprived, or even just bone-tired. I gave up soft drinks, so rarely do I have caffeine. But still sleep evades me. I repeat the Scriptures to myself, especially “thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee.” And yes, I feel I’m IN perfect peace. Just not perfect sleep. I’ve become an old hand (especially this year) at mentally making a little list of my worries and handing them up to Him—and letting them go. I know He’s in charge of me and mine anyway.

So, in the end, if it’s that someone else is sleeping a peaceful sleep full of dreams where I’m being silly, or loving, or somehow memorable, then that’s okay with me. My time on this earth is limited; I can use all the exposure I can get, to get my message out there. If I’m doing it in others’ sub consciousness’, then that’s cool.

Think about it next time you can’t sleep. It makes the loneliness of the wee small hours just that much easier to bear.

It’s barely daylight and so quiet in the house, you can hear the snow blowing around outside. The scent of spruce boughs lingers in the air as you tiptoe through the living room, bent on checking out those gift-wrapped presents under the tree. Quiet, don’t wake up the snoring parents in the process.

What’s this? There’s a huge rectangular package tucked behind the tree with no tags, no names. A plain brown wrapping paper-wrapped shape, no ribbons or bows. Where did this come from? It has an air mail sticker in the corner that’s marked, “North Pole.”

Whenever I think of my childhood (50’s and 60’s) and all the little special things that warm my memory, this one rises to the surface most often. The gift turned out to be simply a suitcase, meant for me. It was a thoughtful present, as I loved going to church camp in the summer, spring and fall retreats, and to friends’ houses to spend the night. That wasn’t the important thing. It was the unexpectedness, the delight and surprise of it all.

There are other memories, the doll I received that was very nice—but not the one I wanted, not the one I asked for. The year I tried so hard as an 8 year old to provide and wrap gifts for my brothers and parents on my own, and in desperation ended up selecting the very best of the cloth handkerchiefs in my father’s drawer, wrapping them beautifully for my brother’s gift. I remember how accomplished I felt, how impressed I was with myself and how beautifully I wrapped all the presents. Juxtaposed over that image is the look of hurt and perplexity in my brother’s eyes when he opened my elegant box of used handkerchiefs. The anger in my father’s voice as he yelled at me for hurting my brother’s feelings. The lame attempt to pacify my brother with a model car purchased at the all night drug store. What a memory.

I can remember the best part of our Kentucky Christmas dinner—the homemade candies my aunt Laura made, tons and tons of different chocolates, fruit-filled drops, fudge, and mints. The warm and spicy aroma of my grandmother’s house with the meal all ready…the bubbling lights on her sad, pathetic little Christmas trees, that she festooned with paper ribbons, German paper stars, and mercury glass ornaments.

I can still feel the sharp bite of cold against my cheeks as we leave Granny’s house after dinner and gift-exchange, heading for home and the inevitable “unexpected” early arrival of Santa, who always seemed to hit our house on Christmas Eve so Mom and Dad could sleep late next morning. The stale odor of old cigarettes lingered on the car’s plastic seat covers against my cheek and mixed with the scent of foil-covered leftover turkey and dressing that we carried home, pressed upon us by my dear Granny as always.

So many memories rise during this season…the year my brother came home on furlough from the Army, wrecked his brother’s car and went back to base early (understandably). The funny little borrowed doll that came with a note, explaining that Miss Darlene the Ballerina was ill and in the doll hospital, and would make her arrival a week or so after Christmas when she had recovered.

Setting the table for Christmas dinner always held its special charm: first I would raise the leaves of our cherry drop-leaf table until the two-seater would seat 10-12. Then what I pictured as dressing the princess in her ball gown: I covered the table with a padded protective cover, followed by either a solid green or solid red cloth covering. Frosting the beautiful crimson or emerald cover would be a delicate crocheted tablecloth, brought back from Germany when my Dad was in the War.

Mama’s feather-pattern glasses with the gold rims came next, and all her good china, each plate turned to just the right angle, cloth napkins in place, and the knives with their blades facing the plate, each piece nestled in its appointed role.

Leaving room for the turkey platter in the center of the table, I placed candles here and there, with fancy dishes to hold the jewel-like cranberry sauce, the antique silver footed casserole holders with their Pyrex inserts, and the butter knife beside the butter dish just so.

The singular display in its place of honor in our living room, however, was the cloud of angel hair that served as a bed for the Manger Scene. A die-cut cardboard set, it lasted us for years and years. And it never lost its charm. I always pictured the baby Jesus with his glowing halo, just as the one in the figures looked. And that’s the last thing I always fought for, to keep Baby Jesus on display after the holidays were over, all the gifts opened, the tummies fattened, the naps taken. When the tissue and discarded bows were cleared away I wanted him to remain, the last vestige of the holiday—the real meaning of the Christmases I remember so well.